


Wasted Vessel

by Clowns_or_Midgets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Apocalypse, Death is only temporary, Gen, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:44:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clowns_or_Midgets/pseuds/Clowns_or_Midgets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean: 'It turns out that you and me we're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good.' <br/>After the phone call with Dean, Sam takes drastic action to avoid his destiny as Lucifer's vessel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Look, Dean, I can do this. I can. I'm gonna prove it to you." Sam was desperate, pleading even, but he didn't think Dean heard the desperation in his voice.

"Look, Sam—it doesn't matter—whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me, we're the, uh, the fire and the oil of the Armageddon," Dean said. "You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good."

"Dean, it doesn't have to be like this. We can fight it." Sam was close to begging.

"Yeah, you're right. We can." Sam felt hopeful for a split second before Dean's next words halted that in its tracks. "But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker. Because whatever we have between us—love, family, whatever it is—they are always gonna use it against us. And you know that. Yeah, we're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing if we just go our own ways."

"Dean, don't do this," Sam begged.

"Bye, Sam." The dial tone replaced the sound of Dean's voice, and Sam stared at the phone in shock.

It felt like there was a heavy weight compressing his chest. He couldn't breathe. Tears filled his eyes and streaked down his face. He made no attempt to stem their flow; there was no one there to see his shame. The one person that was always there for him had just abandoned him.

He was Lucifer's vessel… To use Dean's words, Lucifer was wearing him to the prom. The shock and horror of the revelation weighed heavily on him. He should have guessed it would be him. Who was more deserving of Lucifer's curse than the one who had released him?

It started to rain. The droplets pooled on the windshield, imitating the tears on Sam's cheeks. He didn't know what was worse. The fact he was doomed to be Lucifer's meat suit, or the fact his brother no longer wanted him. Upon reflection, Sam decided what had happened with Dean was worse. He was the one person Sam thought would always be there, but now he had been cast aside, unwanted.

A sob built in Sam's throat and the tears clouded his eyes. He pulled the car to a stop at the side of the road and switched off the engine. Hugging his arms around himself, he allowed the pain its release. Tears streamed down his face, and he keened like an animal. His pain was too much to contain.

"Dean," he moaned.

More than anything, he wished his brother was there. But Dean didn't want to be there. He'd made that clear enough. 'Pick a hemisphere' 'Stay away from each other for good.' Sam didn't want to stay away from Dean; he needed him there. Dean was the only good thing left in his world. He had lost everything else.

Sam cried until there were no more tears to shed. Then he was left with an aching emptiness, an emptiness that Dean had once filled. He didn't know what to do next. How was he supposed to go on without his brother? He couldn't hunt down Lucifer alone; without Dean there to ground him, he knew he would say yes. He wasn't strong enough to resist alone. He didn't want to give in, but he knew himself. He was weak.

More than anything, he wished he couldn't feel anymore. He was in too much pain to bear. He wanted to be free from the crushing guilt and sadness in his soul.

With nothing better to do, he started the car and pulled out onto the road again. There wasn't much traffic; the rain cleared had the roads. He knew he wasn't paying enough attention to the road, but it didn't bother him. Maybe he would get lucky and some drunk would run him off the road. He longed for the release of unconsciousness. He was past the point of being shocked at his own selfishness; he was prepared to possibly injure another person just so he could have some peace.

Knowing he had no business being on the road in his frame of mind, he started looking for a place to stop for the night. He could head back to Greely and the room he had there—he still had a few days paid for—but that was a bad idea. Too much had happened for him to be able to show his face there again. Even now, Lindsey could be telling the police of how she had been taken hostage.

As he pulled up to an intersection, he saw a sign for a motel. The bright neon drew him in, and he turned the car into the parking lot. The motel office was lit up, and he pulled the car to a stop in front. He checked himself in the rearview mirror. He presented a sorry sight. His face was haggard and drawn in lines of sadness.

He wiped the dying tears from his face and got out of the car. The rain seeped through the collar of his jacket, making him shiver. He pushed open the door and walked into the well-lit office. The clerk—a middle-aged man with a beer gut—looked up from his portable TV and started as he caught sight of Sam.

"I need a room," Sam said tonelessly, holding out a credit card.

The man took the card and thrust it into a machine.

"Double, all right?" he asked.

"Fine," Sam said in that same dull voice. He scribbled a signature on the paper the clerk slid across the desk and took the proffered key.

"Your room's round the back."

"Thanks." Sam went out into the rain again, crossing his arms over his chest to stave off the cold. He drove to the back of the motel and stopped the car in front of room thirteen.

He let himself into the room and tossed his duffel onto the floor. He dropped onto the bed and covered his face with his arm. He knew he should get out of his wet clothes, but it seemed like too much effort to manage. He lay back on the bedspread and thought of the mess his life had become. Only a few days ago, he had been working in the bar and settling into the civilian life. Hunting hadn't been far from his thoughts, but he had been comfortable in his life if not happy. Then Reggie and Tim had come back and they'd blown his little life as Keith out of the water. Now he was on the run, again, and this time he had no Dean beside him.

Dean. That was the worst part. He could handle the knowledge that he was Lucifer's vessel if he still had Dean beside him. Dean would have saved him from himself. Now there was nothing. He would say yes, he knew it. It would only take one moment of weakness, and he would be screwed. He didn't know what happened to a person once they had become an archangel's vessel. Maybe it was different to what happened to Jimmy. He'd said he remembered bits and pieces of his time with Castiel. If Sam said yes, would he be aware as Lucifer tore the world apart or would it be peaceful oblivion? The idea of oblivion was tempting,

He jerked to a sitting position. It was happening already. He was weakening. He had to do something. His eyes roved the room, as if a solution would appear to him by magic. There was no solution to be had though. The only thing in the room outside of the ratty furniture was his green duffel, and that held nothing but a couple of changes of clothes, his knife, and his gun.

Sam shook his head and raked a hand through his hair. He tugged at the strands, using the pain to ground him in the present. He had to do something. He thought about calling Dean again, explaining how he was already faltering, but he couldn't bear to hear Dean's refusal again, or worse, his scathing of Sam's struggle. Dean already knew just how weak his brother was, he didn't need more proof.

Sam flopped back onto the bed and rolled onto his side. He would sleep for a while. Then, in the morning, he would work out how to go on with his life without his brother and while resisting Lucifer.

Sleep didn't bring oblivion though. It brought Lucifer to him again.

A hand smoothed over his shoulder lovingly, but instead of pleasing him, the touch made his skin crawl. He jerked to a sitting position.

Jess smiled at him in that familiar way. The smile used to mean the world to him, now it repulsed him, as he knew it was Lucifer using her face to trick him.

"Hey, baby," Jess said. "You miss me?"

"You're not her."

Her face shimmered and morphed into Lucifer's. "Now, Sam, that's no way to talk to the love of your life, is it?"

"You're not her," Sam said harshly. "You're trying to trick me."

Lucifer's mouth twisted into a moue of regret. "That's not true. I was trying to give you a moment with the one you love. I would never try to trick you, Sam. I'm the only person in the world that would never try to hurt you. You can trust me."

Sam shook his head. "No. You want me to say yes. You'll say anything to make that happen."

Lucifer tapped his chin thoughtfully. "That is true. I will say anything, but I will also do anything. Tell me what you want, Sam. I can give it to you. You want little Jess back from the dead? I can do that. I can give you anything. All you have to do is say yes."

Sam turned away. Lucifer's words were tempting, but he knew they were wrong. If he gave in, there would be nothing to stop Lucifer from destroying the world. Nothing but Dean, and Sam couldn't bear the thought of Dean giving up his life to be Michael's vessel. There had to be another way.

And there was another way. The answer came to Sam so easily he thought he had always known it but had been unable to admit it to himself.

"What?" There was a hint of worry on Lucifer's face. "What are you thinking? What have you decided?"

Sam smiled cruelly. "I think I'm ready to wake up now." He clenched his fists so tight his nails bit into his skin.

The pain worked. He felt the dream fade away, and he found himself lying alone on the bed again. He sat up slowly and looked down at his bloodied palms. The pain was insignificant. He had more important things to think of. The solution.

There was no chance of him saying yes if he was dead, therefore his path was simple; he had to die.

He thought there would be some emotion attached to the realization, some fear or sadness, but there was only a sense of relief. It was like emerging from deep water. He could do this, and it would all be over. No more pain, no more fear, no more disappointment. He would be free.

Outside the window, dawn's light was streaking across the sky. The rain from the night had passed, and the sky was clear. He knew he needed to brave the outside world one last time before he went ahead and did what needed to be done, but he was reluctant to leave the haven of his motel room.

Casting aside his own wants and desires, he pulled on his jacket and stepped out into the early morning sunshine, stopping to grab the pad of motel stationary and a pen. He had the car, but he thought he would walk instead. It would take him time to get to his destination; therefore, he would have a little longer before doing what must be done.

He had passed through Main Street on his way into town, and he headed in that direction, not hurrying his pace, just enjoying the walk. Everything seemed so much more vibrant and alive to him, and he winced as a car roared past. His nerves felt exposed, and his clothes chafed against his skin. He was more aware of his self than ever before, and he didn't like it.

When he came to Main Street, he found the stores he needed were still closed. It was early after all. There was a small diner open though, and he directed his footsteps there. Pushing open the door, he saw the diner was almost empty. There were a couple of truckers eating at the counter and an elderly couple in a booth, but the rest of the room was empty.

Sam took a seat at a booth, and a smiling waitress came over carrying a carafe of coffee. "What can I get you, hon?" she asked.

"Just coffee, please."

She filled his mug and pulled a notepad out of her pocket. "Are you sure I can't get you anything else? We make great waffles."

"I'm sure," Sam said.

She looked into his eyes, and Sam felt uncomfortable under her close scrutiny. It was as if she was seeing right through him. Sam wondered what she was seeing in him. Did she know what he was planning? He felt sure he must look different now. Like the condemned man he was.

"If you change your mind, give me a shout," she said softly.

When she was gone, Sam surreptitiously checked his refection in the back of the napkin holder. His eyes looked a little wild. Perhaps the waitress had thought he was on drugs. He could have told her he was clean. At least he was now. Thoughts of his addiction and shame rolled over him, and he bowed his head. It was another failure to lay at his feet. It was no wonder Dean didn't want him anymore. Who would want a brother that had got strung out on the blood of demons?

He pulled the pad and pen out of his pocket. Chewing the tip of the pen, he considered the blank sheet of paper. How did you start a letter like this? What words did you use to tell the most important person in your life that you were no more? By the time Dean got the letter, Sam would be gone. He could have forgone the letter completely, but he wanted Dean to understand what he was doing was his own choice and not some moment of weakness. This wasn't him being selfish; this was him being brave, brave enough to know what needed to happen.

Sipping at his coffee, he penned his last missive to his brother. Every word cost him, and soon tears were pricking at his eyes. The waitress was watching him from across the counter, but Sam didn't pay her any attention. When the letter was written, he folded the sheet of paper, and put it carefully in his pocket. Draining the dregs of his coffee, he dropped some bills down onto the table to cover his bill and got to his feet.

His next port of call was a drug store. It was open now, and a bell tinkled as Sam entered. He wandered the aisles, searching for what he needed. He found it by the counter, and he stopped and stared at the wealth of riches on offer. He picked out two bottles of Tylenol and took them to the cashier.

The man raised an eyebrow at him. "Headache?" he quipped.

Sam forced a smile. "No, I'm going on a trip and I want to make sure me and my buddies are stocked up for hangover central." That sounded suitably lighthearted, Sam thought. An easy explanation.

"A trip? Anywhere nice?"

"We're going to Vegas. Blow our lot on the craps table."

The man chuckled. "Well, I wish you luck." He rung up Sam's sale and put his pills into a small paper bag. "You take care out there in Vegas. Don't bet the farm."

Sam nodded and smiled. "I'll be careful."

As soon as he turned away from the counter, he allowed his smile to fade. It had hurt his face to act so happy when he was feeling anything but. The pretence was necessary though. He couldn't have the man refusing to sell to him, which he would if he knew what Sam was really planning.

Across the street from the drug store was Sam's last port of call, the post office. He crossed the street and entered the small store. There was an elderly woman behind the counter, and she smiled at Sam as he entered. He picked out a package of envelopes and tore it open. Stuffing the letter inside, he addressed it to Bobby's house and went to the counter.

"I want to send this express mail," he said. "And I need to pay for the envelopes."

The elderly woman rung up the sale and took the envelope from Sam. "I'll get that sent out with the next collection."

"Thanks." Sam smiled and handed over a bill to cover the cost of his purchases.

Smiling once at the woman, he turned and left the small store.

The walk back to the motel didn't seem to take long. Soon, he was letting himself back into his room. He threw his packages down on the bed and took off his jacket.

Now the moment was upon him, he felt a little nervous.

He poured himself a large glass of water and then sat crossed legged on the bed. He shook out the pills and made them into a mound on the blanket.

They looked innocent sitting there, small and white. He picked up one and rolled it in his hand. Such a small thing was so powerful. Enough of these and he would be no more. He popped the pill into his mouth and swallowed it dry. The first pill went down easy, and the second easier still. Soon he was knocking them back by the handful, chasing them with gulps of water. When they were all gone, he rested back against the headboard and sighed. It was done now; all that was left to do was wait.

As he waited, his mind wandered. He wondered what Dean was doing now. He hadn't mentioned a hunt when they'd spoken, but it hadn't been a social call. Perhaps he was with Castiel. Sam hoped so. Castiel would be able to take care of Dean, now and after, Bobby, too. Dean would be angry at first, but he would soon see that it was for the best. Sam was saving them all by doing this, saving them from Lucifer and from Sam himself.

He didn't know how long had passed before he began to feel different. Time had ceased to have any meaning for him. Out of nowhere, he started to sweat. It pooled down his back and across his brow. He got to his feet, thinking he would get a wet towel from the bathroom, when the nausea hit. He lurched across the room and into the bathroom, dropping down in front of the toilet. His stomach heaved and he bowed over the toilet as the contents of his stomach came up.

By the time his stomach was empty, he felt exhausted and his muscles were cramping. He leaned back against the wall and wiped the back of his mouth with a shaky hand. He hadn't noticed any of the pills he had swallowed as he had vomited, and he hoped they had already dissolved before the sickness hit. It would be a tragedy if he had just voided his stomach of them all.

He felt weak, and he wondered if it was oncoming release that made him feel so tired. He slid sideways against the wall and came to rest lying on his side on the floor. The cool bathroom linoleum felt good against his flushed skin. His eyes wanted to close, and he didn't fight the urge. He hoped this was the end.

He exhaled in a rush and waited for death to sweep him away.

He came back to awareness with a gasping breath followed by hacking coughs.

He felt like he had been holding his breath too long underwater. He drew in deep breaths and massaged his aching chest. At first, he didn't understand why he was on the bathroom floor, and then the memories caught up with him. He had been trying to kill himself. He looked around the small room. The air still smelt of his sickness, and his clothes were damp with sweat. His muscles still ached, but his stomach was calm now.

He pushed himself to a sitting position and leaned heavily against the wall. He had failed… or had he? Was this Lucifer's vow made true? He had sworn he would just bring Sam back if he killed himself. Was that what had happened, or had Sam's attempt failed altogether? He had no memories past lying on the floor.

He felt tears pool at the corners of his eyes. He had no idea how long he had been whatever he was: dead or sleeping. He stood on shaky legs and left the bathroom. He picked up his phone and saw that he had missed calls from Dean's number. A little surge of excitement rushed through him. Dean had been trying to get in touch with him. Maybe he had changed his mind. His finger hovered over the dial button, but before he could press it, a voice whispered to him.

Maybe he's just checking you haven't said yes yet.

Sam's finger faltered. Going with the odds, it was likely Dean had called for some other reason. He was hardly going to change his mind after only—Sam checked the time readout of his phone. Hours had passed since Dean's last call. He had been out a long time. Nowhere near enough time for Dean to have changed his mind. Dean wasn't calling to ask him to come back. The realization made the tears he had been withholding slip down his cheeks.

He dropped the phone back onto the table and raked a hand through his hair. Dean didn't want him. Dean didn't need him. Other than Lucifer, no one did.

He flopped down onto the bed and curled into a ball. The tears fell in earnest, and for a while it was impossible to think of anything but his failure.

When other thought returned to him, Sam felt an aching in his chest. Lucifer had brought him back or Sam himself had failed. However it had happened, he had failed. He had to try again. This time he was going to have to risk a little pain.

He went into the bathroom again and turned the taps to fill the tub with steaming water. While he waited for it to fill, he went to his duffel and pulled out his butterfly knife. It was old, older than him. It used to be his fathers. He had given it to Sam for his thirteenth birthday. At the time, Sam had been disappointed. Now, Sam mentally thanked his father for his eclectic choice in gifts.

When the tub was full, Sam stripped off his clothes and sank into the scalding water. It set every nerve on fire it was so hot, but it was exactly what he needed. He had heard the heat made the blood flow faster and helped to numb the skin.

He held his hands under the water, feeling the heat burning his skin. When he thought it had been long enough, he raised them from the water and turned his right hand so his wrist was exposed. The fine blue veins were prominent, and he took the blade and rested it against them. Closing his eyes, he made a downward cut, cutting through them vertically. It stung, and the blood flowed at once. Sam watched it with a disconnected feeling as it dripped down into the water, turning it a dusky red. His wrist didn't hurt, but his hand felt clumsy and shaky. When he tried to pass the blade into the other hand to cut his left wrist, his fingers fumbled. With difficulty, he rested the blade against his left wrist and drew it across the skin. The cut wasn't as deep as it was on his other wrist, but it would do the job.

Raising his hands in front of his face, he watched the blood flow down his arms with an appreciative eye. It was enough, and this time there would be no room for error. It would work.

He dropped his wrists back beneath the red water and lowered himself so his head was resting on the edge of the tub. He felt tired and peaceful. This was a pleasant way to go, he thought.

He allowed his eyes to slip closed, and he waited for the end.

This time, when Sam awoke, there was no doubt in his mind of what had happened. His head had slipped down into the water, and his mouth was filled with coppery tasting water. He spat it out and coughed as his lungs refilled.

He raised his hands in front of him, and he saw the clear unblemished skin of his wrists. There was no sign that the skin had ever been cut.

Feeling nauseated, he climbed out of the tub and pulled the plug to drain the crimson water.

He wrapped a towel around his waist and went to sit on the edge of the bed. Pushing back his damp hair, he thought over what had happened and what it could mean. Lucifer had brought him back; he had made good on his promise. It was a promise Sam wished he would have broken. What was he supposed to do now?

He flopped back onto the mattress and threw a hand over his eyes. He didn't know how long had passed this time, but it didn't matter; time had no meaning to him anymore. All that mattered was what he was going to do next.

It hadn't been enough to overdose or to cut his wrists. He needed to do more. He had to harm his body so badly it would be impossible for Lucifer to heal him. What was a little poisoning or blood loss compared to an archangel? It was nothing. His body had been barely harmed. But there had to be limits to the archangel's ability to repair.

Feeling disconnected to his body, Sam got to his feet and walked to where he had left his duffel. He dropped the towel to the floor and pulled on clean clothes mechanically. His hands brushed against something at the bottom of the bag. Curious, he pulled it out. It was his gun. He examined it carefully. It was a beautiful weapon, a Taurus 9mm. Another gift from his father.

This was what he needed. This was the solution.


	2. Chapter 2

One moment, Dean was talking to Zachariah, the next he was standing at the side of the road. He spun on his heel and saw Castiel watching him with his usual slightly bewildered expression.

Dean exhaled in a gust. "That's pretty nice timing, Cas."

"We had an appointment," Castiel said simply.

Dean took in the ragged trench coat and slight smile and breathed a sigh of relief. This Castiel may have a stick up his ass, but at least he was helpful. All stoner Cas seemed able to do was arrange orgies.

Dean rested a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Don't ever change."

Castiel smiled in bemusement, and then his face became pensive. "How did Zachariah find you?"

"Long story. Let's just stay away from Jehovah's Witnesses from now on, okay?" Dean said, rooting through his pockets. He pulled out his phone.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked.

"Something I should have done in the first place." Dean pressed speed-dial one and held the phone to his ear. He tapped his foot as he waited for Sam to answer, but the phone rang out until the voicemail kicked in.

"Is something wrong?" Castiel asked.

Dean held a finger to his mouth as he redialed and waited for Sam to answer. When he was connected to voicemail again, he thrust the phone back into his pocket.

"Sam's not answering."

Castiel frowned. "That's unusual."

Dean sighed and rubbed his chin. "He's probably pissed at me. I said… Well, suffice to say, I'd be pissed, too."

"What did you say to him?" Castiel asked curiously.

Dean shook his head and didn't answer. He didn't want to tell Castiel the things he had said to his brother. He had been unnecessarily harsh. He didn't want to see Castiel's disapproval.

He looked up and down the empty street. "I don't suppose you thought to zap the Impala here too, did you?"

Castiel frowned and Dean sighed.

"You left my baby in Kansas City! That's just great."

Castiel looked apologetic. "I could take you back there now," he ventured.

"No, let's leave it awhile before we go back. Zachariah could still be hanging around, and I have had enough of that particular douche-wad to last me a lifetime. How's about we head up to Bobby's?"

"I thought you preferred not to travel with me. You said it disagreed with your digestion."

"Yeah, well, we're low on options, and I want to know if Bobby has heard from Sammy."

"You're concerned about your brother," Castiel stated.

"Let's call it responsibly aware," Dean said. "He's all alone out there."

"That didn't worry you a few days ago," Castiel said with a frown. "Why is it that you are worried now?"

"Sam said…" Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. "Sam's Lucifer's vessel."

"Oh."

"That's all you've got to say? Oh!" Dean imitated Castiel's deep tones poorly. "No shock?"

"It makes sense in a serendipitous way. Two brothers, one for the power of good, the other for the—"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Dean said. "Sammy's got his problems. Lord knows I know that. But that doesn't make him bad."

Castiel raised his hands. "That was not my implication at all. I merely meant that of two brothers one must represent the light, and another, the dark." He nodded thoughtfully. "This is a heavy burden for Sam to carry."

Dean sighed. "Tell me about it." Seeing that Castiel was indeed about to expound on his theories, he cut him off. "How's about we hop to Bobby's on the angel express. Like you said, Sam's got a burden, and I'd like to touch base with him and make sure he's okay."

"Very well."

One moment Dean was standing under a street lamp, the next he was in the hall of Bobby's house, and the aforementioned man was aiming a shotgun at his head.

"Ummm… hey," Dean said.

"Dammit, Cas," Bobby said. "How many times do I have to tell you? No zapping people into my house without warning. Zap them to the porch so they can knock."

"I apologize," Castiel said sincerely. "We were in a hurry, though. Dean is concerned for his brother."

"Sam?" Bobby sighed. "What's he done now?"

"He's Lucifer's vessel," Castiel interjected before Dean could speak.

Bobby exhaled in a rush. "I'll be damned. Is he okay?"

"We don't know. He is refusing to answer Dean's calls."

"Dammit, Cas!" Dean cursed. "Will you let me speak?"

Castiel looked repentant. "I apologize."

"So, is he okay?" Bobby asked, looking at Dean.

Dean shrugged. "When I spoke to him, he sounded pretty freaked out. I tried calling him again, but he's not answering."

Bobby wheeled himself into the kitchen and picked up a glass of whisky from the table. He knocked it back in one swallow and then poured another.

"Um, Bobby, it's like 6am," Dean said awkwardly.

Bobby scowled at him. "What are you, my mother? In case you missed it, Cas here just shared a mind-altering revelation. Drinking is the sensible response."

"You're right." Dean poured himself a measure of whisky and knocked it back. After the night—or was that days? He lost track of time in the future world—he'd had, he felt he deserved a drink.

"Have you heard from Sam?" Dean asked.

"No, not for a couple of days. He called up to tell me about some demon signs in Pennsylvania. I sent Tim and his crew up there after it."

Dean pulled his phone out and dialed Sam's number. It rang through to voicemail again. He dropped his phone onto the table and cursed under his breath.

"Maybe he just needs some time to wrap his mind around it all," Bobby said. "It's a lot to take in, being Lucifer's meat suit and all."

Dean sighed. "Maybe." He didn't share what he was secretly fearing, that he had driven Sam away with what he had said. He didn't want to see the accusation in their eyes. "I'm beat. I've been zapped across the country and to the future and all of it on less than an hour sleep."

"Go get some shuteye," Bobby said. "Your room's where you left it."

Dean clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Thanks, Bobby. If you hear anything from Sam…"

"I'll holler," Bobby said.

"I must go," Castiel said. "There are things to do. If you need me, pray." That said, he disappeared with a soft rustling sound.

Dean trudged up the stairs into the bedroom he used when at Bobby's place. He dropped down onto the bed and was asleep within minutes.

He was even more tired than he had thought, and it was the early hours of the next morning when he woke. Used to operating on short sleep rations, Dean felt sluggish and stupid as he threw back the covers and made his way down the stairs.

Bobby was at his desk in the library, a heavy tome open in front of him.

"About time you showed yourself," he said. "I was wondering if you were going to Rip Van Winkle your way though the apocalypse."

"No such luck," Dean said through a yawn. "What are you doing up?"

"Got a call in from Rufus. He's going after a lamia, and he needs the skinny on what will kill it."

"Anything I can do?"

"No, I've just found what I need." Bobby picked up the phone and dialed.

Dean went into the kitchen and filled the coffee maker. As he waited for it to brew, he leaned up against the counter and looked out of the window into the scrap-yard. As a child, this place had seemed magical. He and Sam had spent hours playing out between the cars while their father talked with Bobby. Now it had lost some of it magic, but the place was still special. Bobby's house represented home, and all the things they had missed out on in life, especially Sam. Thoughts of Sam made Dean frown. He reached into his pocket for his phone, and remembered he had left it on the table the morning before. He walked out into the hall but the table was empty.

"You looking for this?" Bobby asked, waving Dean's phone in the air. "I tried calling Sam a few times in the night. There was no answer though.

Dean took the phone. "Thanks for trying."

"You think he's okay?" Bobby asked.

Dean sank down into the chair opposite the desk. "Honestly, I don't know. I said some stuff that's probably got him pissed at me. I'm hoping he's on his way here now. He would have wanted someone to talk to."

"You want to tell me what you said?" Bobby asked.

"Not really. Let's just say, I'm hoping he'll answer his phone soon so I can say sorry."

Bobby raised an eyebrow. "It must have been bad if you're wanting to apologize."

Dean nodded. "It wasn't one of my proudest moments."

"Never mind. When Sam gets here, you can talk it out. In the meantime, is that coffee I smell?"

"You're not going to try and sleep some more?"

"Nah. If you're going to be awake and worried, I may as well join you."

Dean smiled his gratitude and then went to the kitchen to fetch them both some coffee.

When morning came, Dean got out of the chair he had been inhabiting for hours and stretched. His joints popped and he winced at the sound. Deciding a shower would clear the last of the sleep from his mind, he went back to his room and grabbed a towel.

The water was hot, and it pounded over him, releasing the tension in his taut muscles. He allowed it to run over him long after he was clean. It wasn't until he heard Bobby calling his name that he stepped out of the cubicle and wrapped a towel around his waist.

When he was dressed again, he jogged down the stairs and into the library. "What's up?" he asked.

"You got a letter," Bobby said holding out an envelope to him.

Taking it from him, Dean frowned. "Who'd be writing to me here?" He turned the envelope over and his heart contracted as he recognized the handwriting. "It's from Sam."

Bobby's brow furrowed. "Why would Sam be writing to you?"

Dean had a sick sinking sensation in his gut. For whatever reason Sam had decided to write to him, it couldn't be for anything good.

Dean

I don't know how to start this letter. I don't know how to say all that needs to be said.

Let me begin by saying I'm sorry.

Sorry doesn't seem a strong enough word for all that I have done, but it's the only word I have. I never meant to hurt anyone, least of all you. My intentions were only ever good.

I also want to thank you. You have spent your whole life protecting me, and for that I will forever be grateful. You did without so I could have, and there are no words to say how much I appreciate it.

After all your sacrifices I know what I am planning will feel like a betrayal to you, but know this, I am doing this for you and Bobby and the rest of the world. This is the one great selfless act of my life.

If I live, sooner or later I will say yes to Lucifer. It's inevitable. I'm not strong like you. This is the only thing I can do to stop that. By taking my own life, I am saving millions. Please try to understand that and don't judge me too harshly.

Whatever is next for me, heaven or hell, I know I am going there having done the very best I can.

If I can, I would like a hunter's funeral. I know I wasn't much of a hunter, but I did my best.

I love you, Dean

Goodbye

Sam

The letter slipped from Dean's nerveless fingers and landed on the desk. Bobby snatched it up and read it quickly. All color drained from his face as he looked across the desk at Dean.

"No!" he moaned.

Dean shook his head mutely. He had no words to convey the horror of his thoughts.

"Cas!" Bobby bellowed. "We need you!"

With a soft rustling sound, Castiel appeared at Dean's elbow. "What is it?" he asked looking at Dean's horrorstruck expression.

Castiel's arrival snapped Dean back to the present. "Cas! You have to find Sam."

"I cannot sense him now," Castiel said. "You know that."

"Then search on the ground." Bobby said, wheeling himself around the desk and picking up the envelope from the desk. He checked the postmark on the back. "Try Dillsburg, Pennsylvania."

"What has happened?" Castiel asked.

"No time!" Bobby snapped. "Just find him!"

Castiel disappeared, and Bobby and Dean were left alone together.

Bobby gripped Dean's elbow. "He's going to be fine, Dean."

Dean turned haunted eyes on Bobby. "Fine? Did you read the same letter I did? That was sent out yesterday. He's already…" He trailed off as tears filled his eyes. He could bring himself to say the word, but Bobby heard it anyway.

"No!" he said harshly. "I don't believe that. I won't believe it."

Dean clung to Bobby's refusal like a drowning man to a raft. He felt disconnected from his body, as if he too was dead. He was poised on the edge of a gaping pit of despair. One wrong move and he would be flung into it, never to return. The only thing holding him back was that trace of doubt, the possibility that Sam was still alive.

Sam was sitting cross-legged on the bed, with his gun in his lap. It was morning again; the sun outside the window was bright. It seeped through the curtains, making light in the room where Sam only wanted darkness. He thought that the room should reflect the darkness inside of him. This was a day for walking in the park, and being with friends, not for death. It would have to suffice though, as Sam could afford no more delays.

He lifted the heavy gun, and pressed the cold barrel to the hollow under his chin. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes. His finger began to depress the trigger, when he heard a soft rustling sound and felt the presence of someone else in the room.

For a moment he was scared it was Lucifer there already, that he had found Sam, but when he lowered the gun and looked across the room it was Castiel that stared back at him.

"Cas?"

"What are you doing?" For the first time since Sam had met him, Castiel sounded angry. "What are you thinking?"

Castiel stalked across the room and reached for the gun. Sam scrambled back on the bed until he hit the headboard, gripping the gun tight in his hand.

"I have to, Cas. I've got no choice. I'm…"

"Lucifer's vessel," Castiel finished for him. "But, Sam, there are other ways. There are things we can do to protect you."

"You can protect me from Lucifer?" Sam asked skeptically.

More than anything, Castiel wanted to say that he could, but it would be a lie. He was a lowly angel. Lucifer was an archangel, the archangel, second only to Michael. There was nothing Castiel could do to save Sam from that. Though he would try with his dying breath.

Sam saw the truth in Castiel's eyes, and he sighed. "Thanks anyway."

He raised the gun once more and directed it to his throat.

"Sam, no!" Castiel raised his hands in a placatory gesture. "Don't do this to your brother."

"I'm doing this for my brother," Sam said plaintively, lowering the gun again. "Don't you see that? If I'm not here, Lucifer will never have his true vessel. He will never be strong enough to fight Michael."

Castiel shook his head sadly. The words made a sick kind of sense to him. Lucifer was weakened now, still immensely powerful, but weaker than he would be were he to inhabit Sam.

He felt for the first time he truly understood the young hunter. He was not an abomination; he was one of humans his father had so loved. Prepared to give it all up to protect the people he loved. It was noble.

"I understand," Castiel said heavily. It cost him something to say, as he knew the loss of Sam Winchester would bring great grief to people he cared for. And to him. He didn't want to lose Sam's company. Despite all he had done, the angel cared for him, too.

Sam looked at Castiel with tear-filled eyes. "Thanks, Cas." He didn't think he would have someone agree with him. It gave him further peace in his decision. Castiel believed it was the right thing to do too. He was also glad that he was able to see one of the people he was sacrificing himself for before the end. It made him unexpectedly happy.

"Your brother should be here," Castiel said. "It would bring him peace to speak with you first, to understand why you are doing what you are doing."

Sam shook his head. "He can't be here, Cas. He wouldn't understand. I wrote him a letter; it will explain everything."

"They have received your letter. I don't think it brought them any peace. He and Bobby seemed most distressed as I left them."

Sam sighed. He had hoped that it would all be over by the time Dean and Bobby learned what had happened to him. His pointless foray into poisoning had stolen time from him.

"You'll have to explain it to them," he said. "Make them understand."

"I will do my best."

And he would do his best by Dean. He knew allowing Sam to do this would put something between him and Dean, something that may never be overcome. Dean may never forgive him for this treachery and that was how Dean would see it, but Castiel was working for the greater good. Sam's sacrifice would save lives across the globe.

Sam smiled sadly. "I guess that's all you can do." For the third and final time, he raised the gun to his throat. "Bye, Cas."

"Goodbye, Sam. And thank you."

Sam squeezed the trigger and a harsh crack filled the room.

Dean was standing with his arms crossed across his chest, holding himself together, when the sound of Castiel's return reached him. His gaze snapped to the angel, and he knew in that moment that it was all over. Sam was dead. Nothing else could have transformed Castiel's face into lines of sadness.

"No!" He gasped. "No! Don't say it!"

Castiel looked at him sadly. "I'm so—"

"No!" Dean snarled. He lurched forward and grabbed Castiel by the lapels. He shoved him against the wall, knocking a book from the shelf on the adjoining wall. "Don't say it! Don't you dare!"

Castiel made no attempt to shake off Dean, though he could have broken his grip easily. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"No!"

Dean released Castiel and stumbled backwards. He tripped and landed awkwardly in a chair. His arms found their way around his middle and he bowed over under the weight of his grief. He heard a strange keening noise, and it took him a moment to realize the sound was coming from him. It cut off abruptly to be replaced by choking sobs.

His world seemed to be crumbling around him. Sam was dead. Gone beyond recall. There was nothing he could do this time. No demon would deal with him, and Castiel was cut off from heaven. Sam was gone forever.

He wished he was dead, too. This pain was too much for him to live with. He had failed again. The one member of his family left, and he had failed him. This was his fault. He should never have said the things he said. The minute Sam called, saying he wanted back in, he should have gone straight to his brother. It shouldn't have taken him a trip into some demented future to show him the right path; he should have known already. Sam belonged at his side, not alone in the world.

Castiel watched Dean give voice to his pain with a sympathetic eye. He didn't know what to do to help either of the men left to his care. Bobby was bent over the desk with his head in his hands. His shoulders shook, and Castiel knew he was weeping. He felt that he should comfort them, but he didn't know how. Human emotions were a mystery to him, though he felt his own burden of grief at the ending of Sam Winchester. It was the first time he'd experienced grief in his life, and the sensation was unpleasant. It was as if there was a heavy weight on his chest, making it hard for him to breathe.

Dean cried until he was hoarse and still the tears crept down his face. No one came near him, for which he was grateful. If someone had attempted to reach him, he would have lashed out at them. He would have pounded fist to flesh until they felt some fraction of the pain he was feeling.

Lines from Sam's letter came to him, and it made the pain so much worse.

This is the one great selfless act of my life. Dean disagreed. It was selfish of Sam to deny Dean his brother.

By taking my own life, I am saving millions. What did Dean care about millions of faceless people when Sam was gone?

Whatever is next for me, heaven or hell, I know I am going there having done the very best I can. That was the part that scared Dean the most, more than how he was to live in a world without Sam. Where was Sam now? Had he been forgiven his sins, or was he even now on the racks Dean had presided over for so long? The thought made bile rise in Dean's throat.

If I can, I would like a hunter's funeral. It was that thought that brought him out of his overwhelming grief for a split second. Sam needed him. Left where he was, he could be found at any moment. People could even now be touching him. Putting him into a body bag and carrying him away from Dean.

"I need to go to him!" he said, lurching to his feet. "Cas, take me to him."

"I'm not sure that's wise," Castiel said.

"I didn't ask for an opinion," Dean said angrily. "This is my brother. This is Sam. Take me to him."

Castiel frowned. He couldn't see what it would achieve for Dean to see his brother's broken body. Sam was gone now; all that was left was a shell.

"Do it, Cas," Bobby said hoarsely. "Take him to his brother."

Dean looked like he might attack Castiel if he refused, but it was not threat of injury that made Castiel act. It was that he thought he understood what Bobby was saying. Dean wouldn't believe it had truly happened until he saw Sam's body for himself.

Dean turned grateful eyes on Bobby, and Bobby forced a smile.

"You go take care of our boy."

And he was their boy. John Winchester may have begot him, and Mary delivered him, but it was Dean and Bobby that Sam belonged to. They were his family.

Dean closed his eyes and felt the strange disconnection as he was moved through space by will of Castiel. When he opened his eyes again he was staring at bland wallpaper favored by motels and hospitals. He was inches away from the wall, and he knew that Castiel had positioned him thus on purpose. He wanted Dean to have control of when he turned and saw the devastation.

Feeling sick, he turned slowly and faced the scene of Sam's destruction.

Sam was lying sideways on the bed, as if he had been resting against the headboard at the time of his death. His hand was flung out and the gun was still pressed against his palm. There was a lot of blood, but if not for that, Sam would have looked like he had merely fallen asleep while sitting up.

"No!" Dean moaned. "No, no, no, no, no, no!"

He crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees beside the bed at Sam's head. "Oh, Sammy. Why?"

"He was acting for the best," Castiel said behind him.

Dean turned and anger blazed in his eyes as he looked at him. "The best? He's dead! My little brother is dead, and you're talking about what's for the best. Screw that! Screw you! What good are you anyway?"

"Dean…"

"Can you help him?" Dean demanded. "Can you bring him back?"

Castiel shook his head. "You know I can't."

"Then leave us. I want to be alone with my brother."

Castiel bowed his head and then disappeared.

Dean turned his attention back to his brother. He thought that Sam looked uncomfortable, twisted up as he was, so he got to his feet and eased him down the bed so his head was resting against the pillow.

That looked more comfortable, he thought. If not for the grey pallor of Sam's skin, and the wounds, he could be sleeping. The wound under Sam's chin was small; it was the exit wound that had done the damage.

Dean smoothed back Sam's hair so the wound was hidden.

"There, that's better," he muttered. Sam really looked like he was sleeping now. It was easy to believe that he was going to wake up at any minute and start razzing on his brother again.

Dean knelt on the floor and picked up Sam's cooling hand in his own. "What were you thinking, Sammy?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. "Why didn't you just answer your phone?"

If Sam had just picked up the damn phone when he called, all this could have been averted.

Tears pooled at the corner of Dean's eyes and dripped down onto their entwined hands. He felt the wetness and stared at it as it dripped over Sam's knuckles and onto the bedspread.

Dean bowed his head and rested it against Sam's still chest. He knew he wouldn't be able to stay there long, people would come eventually, but for the moment he was content to just be with his brother.

Suddenly, the chest against which he was resting, heaved. Dean lurched back and his butt collided painfully with the floor. He stared in shock as Sam jerked upright and drew in a gasping breath.

Dean couldn't believe his eyes. He was sure he was hallucinating. His closed his eyes and rubbed at them then opened them again. Sam was still moving. He rubbed a hand over his chest, as if it pained him, and then brought a hand to the back of his head. Dean stared at his brother as he examined the blood on the palm of his hand.

"Sammy?" he whispered.

Sam turned to look at him, and his eyes swam with tears. "Dean." It came out as a moan. He scrambled back across the bed and got to his feet. "You aren't supposed to be here."

Dean didn't take in the meaning of the words. He only heard his brother's voice after believing he would never hear it again. He lurched to his feet and rounded the bed, pulling his brother into his arms.

He buried his face in Sam's shoulder and allowed the sobs to overtake him. He felt Sam's hand on his back and heard his whispered words, but the meaning didn't sink in. All that mattered was that it was Sam talking.

Sam held his brother close to him and tried to work his mind around what had happened. He had failed again. It made his own eyes tear, and a sob build in his throat. He didn't want to fail. He had thought a bullet to the brain would be beyond Lucifer's ability to heal. He was wrong. A sob broke from him without his consent, and then it was Dean cradling him as he cried.

"It's okay, Sammy. You're okay," Dean soothed. "I'm here. I'm going to take care of you. No one's gonna hurt you now."

There would be a time for explanations and accusations and reprisals, but it was not then. In that moment, neither of them wanted to do anything but cling to the other and relish the fact they were together.


End file.
